Trust Exercise III
by Niente Zero
Summary: In which Fraser is under the weather, and Ray K cures something, but probably not the common cold. Fluffy, so much sap you could make a gallon o' Grade A maple syrup.


**Disclaimer and Author's Note: I don't own anything Due South related except the box set, maybe a couple of soundtracks, know what I'm saying? Also, I don't own the Dread Pirate Westley (though I rather wish I did) or Roman Brady.**

**This is a sequel to Trust Exercise II, because certain people seem to want to see the Mountie suffer through his first cold, and then Ray wouldn't shut up. I hope it gives satisfaction!**

**-o-o-o-o-o-**

Ray Kowalski was watching Benton Fraser, but Fraser was not watching Ray. For once, he was not watching anyone at all, not hiding thoughts behind what Ray would call his poker face, what Fraser, if he acknowledged that there was anything peculiar about his facial expression, might call a 'bland countenance.'

Fraser wasn't watching anyone because he was face down in a bowl of hot water, his tunic collar still buttoned up tight around his throat, inhaling steam scented with menthol, with the majority of the 27th precinct crowded around him like he was an exhibit at a science fair.

Ray would bet that Fraser was not thinking about falling off the roof, not thinking about how he almost died earlier in the day. Because, Ray thought, Fraser does that. Not falls of roofs - he never does _that_, except today, on account of his first cold ever. No, what Fraser does is get himself into deep trouble and then not think about how close he was to biting the big one _this_ time. He does that a lot. Pondering which made Ray think a guy like that needed some looking after.

Furthermore, a guy like Fraser also happened to hate being the center of fussy attention. Finally Ray decided Fraser had suffered enough for scaring the crap out of Ray on the roof, and got to his feet. "Come on." Ray said, touching Fraser briefly on the shoulder. "I'll show you how to take care of a cold properly." He flashed a glance at Lieutenant Welsh, observed that although the Lieutenant had taken his own shot at curing the common cold he was rapidly losing patience with the chaos surrounding Constable Fraser, and said, "My shift's nearly over, okay if I take off with him?"

Welsh nodded and rolled his eyes. "Get him out of here, and maybe some people will remember we're a police station, not a hospital. And if you're coming down with the same thing," he gave Ray an eagle-eyed glare, "I don't want to see either of you here tomorrow. I don't need an epidemic."

Fraser walked out of the station automatically at Ray's behest. He was definitely relieved to be out from under the exceedingly kind ministrations of his colleagues. His head still felt light and not quite centered on his shoulders, his sinuses contrastingly heavy. Odd. People put up with this? Sometimes several times in one season? He wanted to go back to the Consulate with all possible haste, lie down on the narrow cot in his office, and let his head take care of itself without him having to pay so much attention to his position in space. Diefenbaker walked at his side with a surprising amount of care not to get underfoot.

Fraser let Diefenbaker into the back seat of Ray's car. By the time he sat in the passenger seat and had his seatbelt fastened, Ray was in the driver's seat, not driving, just waiting.

"What is it, Ray?" Fraser asked.

"'Kay, before we go anywhere, we're having a little chat." Ray said.

"About what, Ray?" Fraser's eyes widened, then he blinked and coughed. The steam seemed to have moved him along from sneezing to a deep cough from his chest.

"Ground rules. I'm taking you to my apartment to rest up."

Fraser started to protest, but Ray put his hand up, eyes glittering dangerously.

"Don't interrupt. It's no good saying you want to go back to the Consulate. You don't want Turnbull hovering over you with seven kinds of bark tea and the Inspector yelling at you for whatever she thinks is wrong with someone getting a cold. So. My apartment. We'll hit a drug store first. Uh-uh, I said no interrupting." Ray could see Fraser's lips moving to form a protest at the notion of taking over-the-counter medication. God, Fraser was stubborn.

"While we are in the drug store, you will refrain from engaging in dangerous activity, like stopping a hold up or anything. In fact, no chasing criminals at all."

At this, Fraser really did have to protest. "Ray, the probability that we'd encounter criminal activity on the way home is minimal. And if we did, it would be my duty-"

"-To chase after any jaywalker we happen to see or go off after the first moron with a suspicious bulge in their pocket headed toward a bank or whatever. Yeah, I know. And that shit doesn't fly today, Fraser."

Ray's gaze was intense. "You nearly fell off that goddamn roof. Actually, you did fall off it. You're not on top of your game. So you will not get yourself into anything between here and my apartment. Do I make myself clear?"

Fraser was impressed. That was Ray's "shake, bad guys, shake" voice, look, body language, the shoulders curled forward and tensed. Only, he supposed it was "shake, Mountie, shake." He was suddenly glad that he had not, for some reason, pursued a life of crime leading him to Chicago and the opposite side of an interview room table with Ray. Now he KNEW he was light-headed if he was wandering on flights of fantasy like that.

The force of Ray's appeal was compelling, especially in Fraser's less than fully cogent state. It was also apparently all in service of getting him home safely. Which, while it was oddly touching, was overkill, because really, what could possibly go wrong between the station and Ray's apartment? And how could he promise not to engage in the pursuit of justice? It wasn't like it was a deliberate choice to put himself in danger. But nevertheless, he nodded his agreement. "All right, Ray. I shall endeavor not to become involved in any dangerous situations while I have this cold."

Ray relaxed back into the driver's seat and started the ignition. "Right, that's good then." he sounded relieved. But he still left Fraser in the car with the doors locked while he went into the drug store. Just in case, because his partner seemed to be an unerring trouble magnet, and it would be just Ray's luck that they'd run into some crackhead trying to bust up the joint if they went in together.

Ray emerged from the store with a big, white paper bag. Fraser blinked. It looked like a lot of cold medication considering he wasn't really that sick, and Ray seemed to have a very mild version of the cold.

Ray handed the bag to Fraser as he slid back into the driver's seat.

"There ya go. I didn't know what flavor you want, so I got all kinds of cough medicine. You really never been sick before?"

He headed the car toward his apartment building.

"No, Ray. Well, except for a bout of pinkeye as a child, but both Diefenbaker and Ray Vecchio assured me that didn't count."

He sounded slightly put out by this, also, Ray noted, he was beginning to sound somewhat nasal, his soft, rounded tones under attack by congestion. Good thing Ray bought all the good drugs.

"Huh." Ray said.

"Huh?" Fraser looked puzzled.

"Yeah, huh. Must be some immune system you're packing."

"And a good thing, too, Ray." Fraser said, his vigor sounding damper than usual. "I doubt very much my grandmother would have tolerated malingering. Why, when I broke my arm wrestling Jimmy Johnson, she told me to walk it off, and gave me a copy of a book on pugilism, suggesting that if I must resort to fisticuffs I could at least comport myself like a gentleman."

He said it in a such a plain, matter of fact tone that it took a moment for things to sink in for Ray, and then Ray winced and followed the wince with a scowl.

"So you're saying your grandma never tucked you in bed and brought you soup?" Say what you would about Ray's childhood, his mom knew how to make her little boy feel better.

"No, Ray."

"Your granddad never, like, sat by your bed reading some stupid story?" Ray was flashing on that movie, the one with the pirates and the fire swamp and the sick kid listening to the story.

Now Fraser was looking at him incredulously, open mouthed, that face that made him look like a stunned duckling, the same one he'd worn when he saw Ray's "Vecchio" badge the first day they met.

"Why would he do that?" he asked, apparently more surprised by Ray's assumption that he ought to have experienced such tenderness from his guardians than Ray was by the lack of it.

"Never mind, buddy, never mind." The scowl left Ray's face, replaced by that quicksilver smile as he swung the car into an illegal u-turn. "Gotta make a quick stop at the grocery store before we get home."

Fraser started to protest the dangerous maneuver, but then he was coughing, and it didn't seem worth it, and he wanted a minute to try to figure out what was going through Ray's head right now with the odd questions and then this sudden reversal in direction and mood.

Ray was humming. Disconcerting.

After the grocery store, it was another hair-raisingly quick drive back to Ray's apartment. Ray insisted on carrying all the bags. He also insisted they take the elevator, not the stairs. Fraser was getting to the point of not arguing, not for the moment, anyway. Ray was apparently still at full force-of-nature strength, barring the occasional sneeze, and Fraser felt that it might be a good idea to pick his battles rather more carefully than usual.

"Sit." Ray said, pointing at his couch. Diefenbaker strolled over and hopped up on the couch.

"Not you, Dief. Wolf, on the floor. Mountie on the couch. Take your boots and tunic off, get comfortable."

Fraser did just that, and when Ray was done sticking things in the freezer, pouring Sprite into two glasses, and selecting an array of cold medications for Fraser to choose from, he found Fraser bolt upright, sock-clad feet flat on the floor, shoulders back, as close to sitting at attention as a man could manage.

"I said relax." Ray chided.

"I am relaxed, Ray." Fraser said. Ray set a glass of Sprite in front of him on the messy coffee table.

"There's the first part of taking care of a cold, properly, American style. You got your Sprite, you got your couch, I'll get a blanket. Put your feet up."

Fraser eyed the glass dubiously. "That's primarily sugar and carbonated water with a few drops of citric acid and more sodium than is strictly necessary. I hardly see its utility in treating a cold. Now, a good herbal tisane -"

Ray rolled his eyes. "You got a cold, you know what they say? Take medicine and it'll go away in a week, do nothing and it'll last seven days. Now me, I've had colds, I know what's good at making them feel better. You, never had a cold, you got no idea. Since it's not like the tis-whatsit will cure the cold, shut up and try the Sprite."

"Ah." Fraser was surprised. The illogical logic sort of made sense, which was worrying in its own way. Maybe he had a neurological disorder.

"Feet up!" Ray reminded him as he darted toward the bedroom for the spare blankets from the linen closet. Fraser put his feet up and sipped the icy drink. It did feel awfully good on his throat. Maybe even better than tea. Hmm.

Ray took a moment while gathering supplies in the bedroom to work on his game face. There was no room to let Fraser see how it made him angry that his grandparents, his father, had never given him the sort of comfort and warmth that makes a child feel nurtured and nourished. Damn it, if he found someone to love, have kids with, they'd know, they'd know every day of their lives how cherished they were.

It wasn't right to let a child starve for warmth like that. Walk it off, jeez. Sure, Ray's Dad might have said things like that, now and then. Wasn't like Ray wasn't raised to be tough. But Ray's instincts, his intuition, told him it was a whole other story with Fraser. Fraser was _beyond_ the guy-code level of uncomplaining, not the kind to grizzle about his past, not even though bitching about your parents was a national pass-time. But that didn't mean Ray was oblivious. Fraser was his friend. The people-reading skills that made Ray a good detective, working on hunches born from an unselfconscious empathy, told him a whole lot that Fraser might well have preferred to keep hidden.

The self-help type people said it was never too late to have a happy childhood, which was the sort of logic that Ray could see, even if he wasn't much for the self-help type stuff, and so by the time he came back into the living room with a fleece blanket with the Cubs logo printed all over it and a couple of fluffy pillows, the smirk of mischief was back on his face.

"Lean forward." Ray said briskly. Fraser eyed the pile of pillows and blankets.

"Ray, I'm really not all that unwell." he said. His husky throat belied that sentiment.

"Would you quit arguing?" Ray said. His eyes gleamed brightly. "You still owe me for savin' your life today. So you can pay me back by going with the flow here."

Fraser narrowed his eyes at Ray. Since when did anyone owe anyone else for saving anyone's life? He wasn't sure that Ray would like the outcome if they started counting incidents. And it was awfully wolf-like of him to bring it up. However, blankets and pillows were decidedly not worth expending energy over right now. Not when Ray had who knew what cold remedies up his sleeve for Fraser to worry about. Fraser leaned forward and let Ray position the pillows behind him, then drape the blanket over him.

"Thank you kindly, Ray." he said primly.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Ray said. "Next order of business." He reached for the remote control and flicked the television on, flipping through channels until he found a day time soap opera. "Bad television." He set the remote down out of Fraser's reach and shimmied toward the kitchen. Fraser watched him. Ray on a mission was - well, normal - but also a force that he had enough trouble reckoning with when he wasn't feeling under the weather.

By the time Ray returned from the kitchen with two bowls of ice cream, Fraser was staring at the television in mute fascination.

"I got vanilla, I got rocky road. Which do you want to start with?"

Fraser looked puzzled.

"I mean, yeah, I know, you got a cold, vanilla's traditional, but I figure, hey, maybe Fraze is more of a rocky road guy, because you know, you seem like you could be a rocky road guy, so which is it?"

"Is this another cold remedy?" There was less challenge in Fraser's voice now, he sounded almost amused.

"Oh yeah, most definitely. Makes your throat feel good, and besides, when else do you get the excuse to lie around drinking soda and eating ice cream in the middle of a school day?" Ray winked.

Fraser tilted his head to one side and looked thoughtful. "Ah. In that case. I believe. Rocky road, then, Ray."

Ray grinned broadly and handed him the bowl with rocky road in it. "Greatness. I'll start on the vanilla."

Fraser took a mouthful of ice cream and then said, "Ray, this television program seems to have neither redeeming artistic nor social value in any measure."

Ray rolled his eyes. "That's the beauty of it." he said. "Nobody's getting redeemed here. You just kick back, relax, let it all be what it is."

Fraser sniffled and Ray pushed a box of tissues across to him. "See, now you got your Sprite, your kleenex, ice cream, a blanky. In a bit you can take some cold medicine and have a nap."

"Honestly, Ray, you make it sound as if I'm dying of consumption or something." Fraser huffed. "I doubt I shall need a nap."

"'Course you won't _need_ a nap. You get to take a nap. Like you get to lie around watching bad tv and eating junk. Don't you get it yet? That's the best part about a cold. You're sick enough to chill out, but not too sick to enjoy it."

Light seemed to dawn on Fraser's face. "So this," he gestured around, "self-indulgence really isn't medicinal?"

"Depends what you're trying to cure." Ray smirked.

"And what are you trying to cure?" Fraser asked cautiously.

"Shut up and watch the show."

Half an hour later, Fraser had reclined further into the pillows, with the ice cream bowl balanced on the blanket over his flat stomach, staring at the television with a bewildered expression and coughing occasionally. Eventually he spoke up, answering Ray's explanation of what was going on in the program.

"So you're saying that this man used to think that he was that other man, because he was brainwashed, and everyone else thought that he was that other man too, and that he had gone through reconstructive surgery to his face after a tragic accident involving a crime lord, which is why he didn't look like he used to, but then the other man returned and it was discovered that the man they all thought was him" Fraser paused, confused by his pronouns, "was in fact a hired mercenary, but at heart, a good person?"

"You got it, Frase." Ray said.

Fraser's brow creased. "Maybe it's because I'm still feeling dizzy, but that all sounds rather implausible."

"Well, yeah. It's basically nuts. But wait until you hear about his wife." Ray leaned forward with a grin and started to fill a strangely fascinated Fraser in on the life and loves of the _Days of Our Lives_ characters.

"Do you watch this a lot?" Fraser interjected at one point.

Ray smirked. "Nah, only when I'm sick. It doesn't move that fast and they do the explosition thing a lot, right?"

"Exposition. Yes, they do seem fond of it." Fraser couldn't help smiling. The program was ludicrous, but Ray was right, it had a certain gravitational force of attraction, a sense of doomed spectacle, like watching a herd of caribou running off a cliff in slow motion. It was perfect for his congestion-addled mind, the mental equivalent of the ice cream and soda.

Ray watched Fraser out of his peripheral vision as the credits rolled. His partner was definitely looking more relaxed than usual. Ray allowed a small, pleased smile to show. There was just one step left in the taking-care-of-the-sick-Mountie plan.

"All right, buddy, time to take something for that cough." he said. "I got your orange flavor, cherry, grape, banana, you pick." He waved his hand over the bottles of child-friendly cough syrup on the table. "I got other, stronger stuff but I figured I'd have to twist your arm enough to get you to take this stuff."

Fraser opened his mouth to object. He really was going to say, "No, thank you, Ray, I don't care for non-prescription medications, as you well know." But he couldn't do it. Ray was looking at him with a warm expectation of compliance. Why he would expect that when he should be expecting an argument, Fraser didn't know. But Ray had shown him a great deal of kindness and, he had to admit, Ray's traditional American cold remedies seemed to be making him feel altogether quite a bit better. He closed his mouth and picked up the cherry flavored bottle. It seemed the least likely to be totally vile.

Between the cold and Fraser's lack of resistance to the effects of the medication, it wasn't long before his eyelids drooped closed. Ray moved the bowl with the melted remains of rocky road ice cream off Fraser's stomach and fussed with the blanket, tucking him in. He turned off the television and put on some soothing music. Diefenbaker looked at Ray as if asking permission to get up on the couch with his human, and Ray nodded. Fraser turned on his side put his arms around the wolf, snuggling up to him like a giant teddy bear. Ray could swear Dief rolled his eyes at that.

Ray cleaned up the bowls and glasses quietly, stealing glances at his partner. All his life people had said it was tiring being around Ray, with his manic vitality, never stopping, never standing still. He'd heard that a lot, from his family, his teachers in school, from other cops. Personally, Ray sometimes found it quite exhausting being around Fraser.

You didn't have to be an emotionally intuitive detective to see - well, maybe it helped, because it wasn't like anyone else seemed to see - the walls that Fraser kept up twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. Those walls were like wild exaggerations of essential parts of Fraser, like forcefields he was projecting. The naive thing, the duty thing, the goddamn irritating pedantic thing. The man who will lick anything and talks to wolves and sometimes thin air thing. The polite thing. How many freaking force fields did one guy need? And how much effort did he expend keeping them up? Exhausting. If it was exhausting for Ray to watch, it must be even more exhausting to live. He had to wonder how much his friend had been hurt that he couldn't live without those constant defenses.

And here he was, sacked out on Ray's couch, completely relaxed, defenses dropped for once, looking about twelve years old, cuddling his wolf and... drooling? Ray grinned. Best piece of police work he'd done all week. Better even than bringing the otter smuggler in. Even if he'd needed the help of a pesky little virus, bad tv, ice cream and cold medicine to make this collar.


End file.
